Crook Manifesto (Ray Carney, #2)(103)

They beat the rap.



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***

Carney attended Alexander Oakes’s funeral, though Elizabeth said he was off the hook. It was the least he could do, as one who was with him at the end. He liked going to funerals that were bigger than the one he’d have one day. They reaffirmed his modest lifestyle.

Elizabeth was torn up by her friend’s murder. A city that was the stage for such twisted and inexplicable crimes needed men like Oakes, men of courage and commitment. “They’ll never catch his killer,” she said. “Who was that other body they found? Your store. People get away with these things, and we’re just supposed to take it and go on with our lives.”

“It’s a terrible situation,” Carney said. They were driving home from Evergreens Cemetery. The boxes of campaign pens to replace the first batch that had been misprinted had arrived at Strivers’ Row that morning. What was she supposed to do with them? What was she supposed to do, go into work tomorrow and smile for Dale Baker like a good little girl and pretend everything was normal? Letting off steam after the funeral.

“Do you know how many women run travel agencies this size?” she said. “Black women? None—unless they’ve started it themselves.”

“Maybe you should do that.”

“What?”

“Start your own thing.”

“My own company.”

“I have some money put away. Think about it.”

She was silent then as Riverside Drive scrolled past. They’d revisit this topic soon. He didn’t have that much money put away but he knew where to get some. What else was an ongoing criminal enterprise complicated by periodic violence for, but to make your wife happy?

On that matter, Carney promised Elizabeth he was out of the secondhand rug business. She was right; it was dangerous. He’d have to take care in the future so she didn’t worry.

“We’ll probably never know why that psycho torched the store,” he told her.

“Hmm.”



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***

Carney stepped into his ravaged office. The walls were charred and scored, girders exposed like bone. The smoke and sooty water generated a rank atmosphere. The only thing left in the room was the safe. His Hermann Bros. safe looked unscathed, but the heat had warped the door shut. Time for a new one. How did Moskowitz put it? A man should have a safe big enough to hold his secrets. Bigger, even, so you have room to grow. The technology had come a long way since he was in the market. He looked forward to the hunt.

The light switch in the showroom didn’t work. There were no lights. Sunlight snuck between the seams of plywood. He didn’t want a good look anyway. It was terrible. Christ, what was the point? He rebuilds. They knock it down again. Last time he was here, strips of the ceiling hung down, burned insulation peeled from the walls. The sanitation crew had ripped all that away, exposing the blackened drywall, studs, and beams. It looked like it had been abandoned to the elements for decades.

As he stood in his devastated showroom, the daily calamities of 125th Street, the honking and profanity and screams, fell away. Hot day but he got the chills. Right: The last time the room had been this empty was the day he signed the lease, and half of it was still the bakery next door. He hadn’t knocked through the wall yet. How had he gotten by with so little space! He had prospered and so had the showroom. If he had to do it over, he’d put in stairs to the basement and turn it into a second showroom. For lighting and rugs. Keep the furniture upstairs, but flip Dining and Recliners. It had been bugging him—to have the customer hit Living Room first, with some dandy Sterlings arranged there up front, then Recliners before they got to the other collections.

It was nice, that day he signed the lease and got the keys and it was his.

Good bones. Good bones holding everything up, like the ancient rock beneath Manhattan. Why had he stayed away? This was his kingdom. The thing to do would be to take over the second floor and expand upstairs. That way he could enlarge his office, Marie’s. They’d outgrown those spaces, no question. It was unlivable up there now. He had to call Marie about the tenants’ intentions—who was staying, who was already gone. The third floor wanted to stick around, he knew, except for Mrs. Ruiz. She and her kids had gone to stay with family in Washington Heights and were not returning. Did Marie say that Albert was out of the hospital? She might have. He should send a card.

No, it wouldn’t hurt to ask Jimmy Gray about expanding the store upstairs. Logistics. The cost. Insurance wasn’t going to cover it. It’d be expensive. He needed money. He had some. He’d need more. He had ideas. Martin Green, other stuff. With the store out of commission he had to bring money in. Keep his mind occupied. He had some ideas. The City tried to break him. It didn’t work. He was genuine Manhattan schist and that don’t break easy.

The Dumas Club was not as lucky as the furniture store on the corner of 125th and Morningside. The June fire reduced it to a lonesome shell and consumed the two buildings next door. They were condemned, and eventually the three lots were purchased by a Virginia-based developer with tri-state ambitions. The residential building that went up years later didn’t fit with the rest of the block, the bright orange bricks were a bit too loud, its character overall dull and bereft of style. The city had recovered, they had survived, the future was here, and it looked like crap. The neighbors complained. It wasn’t what had been there before, the people said, we liked the way it used to be. They always said that when the old city disappeared and something new took its place.